Twins For Christmas. Alison Roberts
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‘It is a train. An old wind-up one.’ He lifted the heavy, metal engine from the trunk to hand to Oliver and then reached to pick up something else. ‘These are the tracks that you can clip together. I used to play with it when I was your age, Ollie. And my father played with it when he was a little boy. I’m pretty sure he got it for a Christmas present one year.’
Oliver’s face was solemn. ‘That’s what I’d like for my Christmas present.’
‘You can’t buy these now.’ Emma had come over to look as well. ‘They’re very old and very special. Antiques. Adam, this is extraordinary. Is that a harp over there?’
‘Aye.’ There was a dusty, old cello keeping it company. Music had been in his family for generations. When had it stopped so completely? When his desire to make it had died along with the trauma of Tania’s death?
Oliver was crouching beside the tin trunk with the train engine cradled in his arms.
Adam crouched down beside him. ‘You don’t have to wait till Christmas, Ollie. We’ll take this downstairs, too, and you can play with it whenever you want.’
Oliver looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck. As if something truly magic had just happened, and something squeezed inside Adam’s chest. How easy it was to make children happy but he had never given a thought to the abandoned toys up here. He would never have thought of even unlocking that door if he hadn’t remembered the Christmas decorations.
And he wouldn’t have considered retrieving those if it hadn’t been for Emma pushing him towards celebrating Christmas again.
Right now Emma was plucking the strings of the old harp, sending dust motes flying into the dim light in the attic. And she was singing … just softly. More of a hum really—as though she was in her own world and making music came as naturally as breathing.
Poppy had left the cane pram. She had a sad old teddy bear with an almost severed arm dangling from one hand and she was skipping through the gaps towards that corner.
Adam got to his feet hurriedly. ‘Let’s find those decorations,’ he said. ‘And get downstairs. I can hear Benji crying in the kitchen.’
But it was too late. Poppy had found the rack of dresses and her cry of delight made Emma stop playing with the harp and look up. Adam tried to distract them. He’d had an idea of where the boxes of decorations were and he flipped one open and held up a handful of tinsel and then a huge silver star.
‘Here we are. Look at this star. Shall we put it on top of our tree?’
‘Daddy … are these Mummy’s dresses?’
The shocked look on Emma’s face said it all. The ghost was here again. The tug of nostalgia and the pleasure in finding unexpected gifts for his children vanished. Now he could feel the pain of loss yet again. The guilt. The burden of the lie that kept the mother of his children as a perfect memory.
‘It’s a blue dress. Emma, look. You’re going to make me a blue dress for when I’m Mary in the play, aren’t you?’
‘Um … yeah …’ Emma had started to go towards Poppy but she’d stopped right beside Adam and she gave him an uncertain glance. ‘Come on, sweetheart. We need to go downstairs. It’s nearly teatime.’
But Poppy wouldn’t let go of the folds of the shimmery, blue dress. ‘Why are Mummy’s clothes here, Daddy?’
Adam had to clear his throat. ‘I …’ What could he say? He’d had to get them out of sight and this had seemed the quickest and easiest solution? ‘Maybe I thought you’d want them one day, Poppy.’
He hoped she wouldn’t, he realised suddenly. He didn’t want his daughter growing up to be consumed with keeping up appearances. Better that she didn’t care. That she was happy to wear baggy jumpers and peculiar, bright hats and could shine with an inner joy instead. Like Emma.
‘I want this one now, Daddy. For the play.’
‘It wouldn’t fit you.’
‘Emma could make it fit.’
‘Could you?’ Adam caught Emma’s gaze again.
She still looked uncertain but nodded. ‘I guess so … but …’
‘That’s settled, then.’ Adam wanted to get out of there. As quickly as possible. ‘You and Ollie go downstairs with Emma and I’ll bring the dress down with the other things.’
Emma helped the children down the steps but then her head appeared again.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ she said quietly. ‘I can explain to Poppy. We can find some fabric to make her dress.’
‘They’re only clothes,’ Adam growled. He shoved the rolled-up dress towards her. ‘This one was never even worn—it’s still got its label on it. They’re only clothes,’ he repeated, turning away to pick up a box. ‘I should never have kept them.’
But Emma was still there when he went to put the box down close to the steps. ‘You can still change your mind later.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You might.’ There was a curve to Emma’s lips that suggested sympathy but she wasn’t looking at his face. She was staring at the hand he had curled around the corner of the box of decorations. His left hand.
The one that still carried his wedding ring.
And then Emma was gone and he heard Poppy’s excited voice fading as she went along the hallway, telling Emma that she wanted the dress to be really long so that it floated on the ground.
It took time to get the treasures down the steps, especially when he had to unpack half the tin trunk because it was so heavy. Even in the inadequate light every movement seemed to create a glint on that gold band around his finger—an accessory he never normally noticed at all.
Why was he still wearing his wedding ring? Because everybody assumed that he kept it on as a tribute to a perfect marriage and they would have noticed the moment he’d removed it? A perfect marriage? Good grief … In the short time Emma had been here, it felt like she’d been more of a mother to his children than Tania had been. Guilt nipped on the heels of that admission. It wasn’t something he’d ever needed to acknowledge—not when his mother had always been there to fill in the gaps that his nannies couldn’t.
Or did he still wear the ring because he wanted to punish himself? To keep a permanent reminder of his failure as a husband in clear view?
It was, after all, his fault that his children were growing up without their mother, wasn’t it? Had he been too absorbed in his work or too besotted with his babies to give Tania what she needed?
The ring had served its purpose even if he’d never articulated what that was. There had been times when the truth had been like acid, eating away at him, and he’d been desperate to tell someone. His mother or his sister perhaps. And then he’d touch the back of the ring with his thumb and would know that he couldn’t.
Even the remote possibility that his children could learn the truth about their mother and be hurt by it was enough. This was a burden he had to carry alone. For ever.
He might have been wrong about there being no ghost in the attic but he’d been right when he’d worried about the ripple effect of things changing.
Unusually, he could actually feel that ring on his finger, without touching it with his thumb, late that night as he climbed the stairs to go to bed. They hadn’t ended up decorating the tree after dinner because he’d spent the time before the children went to bed setting up the clockwork train set for Oliver, and Emma had been busy helping Poppy clean the cane pram. And when they’d looked into the box the children had been a little disappointed by the ornaments.
‘They’re all the same colour,’